


It's just who I am, a man with no pride

by Angelicasdean



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Whump, Chapter 4: Saint Denis (Red Dead Redemption 2), Crazy arthur, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kinda, Search and Rescue, Slave Trade, mentioned only briefly, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-14 20:30:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19280620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelicasdean/pseuds/Angelicasdean
Summary: The trade was supposed to be simple. From what Cathrine had said, he was to be expecting a little boy, by the age of four or five and he was supposed to take care of him till they dealt with the family of said boy. So he was rightfully confused and annoyed (albeit, intrigued) when a full grown man landed on his front steps, beaten, bloody and missing a finger.





	It's just who I am, a man with no pride

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts for a while. I was planning a full fic devoted for this but I couldn't really think of a thick enough plot. I was thinking maybe I'd turn this into a series, like the adventures of borderline Crazy! Arthur and exasperated but patient Hosea. Tell me if you'd like to see a series of oneshots like that!

The trade was supposed to be simple. From what Cathrine had said, he was to be expecting a little boy, by the age of four or five and he was supposed to take care of him till they dealt with the family of the said boy. So he was rightfully confused and annoyed (albeit, intrigued) when a full grown man landed on his front steps, beaten, bloody and missing a finger.  _Arthur Callahan_ , the Braithwaite boys had said, but Bronte reckoned otherwise, recognizing the man instantly. He'd seen the posters, had heard the talk. On more than one occasion, had had a part of his business ruined by the man and his gang. No, it wasn't Arthur  _Callahan_ , Bronte knew, he was holding Arthur  _Morgan_. 

He had sent a letter to the Braithwaites, tried to tell them that there is no  _dealing_ with that 'family'. They'd doom themselves, the gang has no limits, from what he'd heard. They kill, they steal, they trick and they  _ruin_. He'd had half a mind to let him go, tell him that there are no hard feeling between him and the gang. But the wild look in Arthur Morgan's eyes guaranteed him certain death if he were to let him go. Even in chains, locked in a dark room under the mansion, his promises of death and destruction had rained heavy through the floor. His men were  _afraid_ , no one wanted to be the one to shut him up. He'd almost scratched one of his guards' eyes, punched another when they tried to chain him. They resolved on setting the maids to send the food since the women are the only thing Arthur Morgan didn't attack instantly.

But even the women came back shaken, looking dismayed and begging to let another servant do the job. No one disobeyed, though, no one went against Bronte's word. 

He knew the man in his basement was wild, knew that he had feral blood in him. He wasn't completely sane, no outlaw ever was, really. It was barely a day after his arrival that his assistant (generous term, really, just a higher paid spy) had come with the news that the Braithwaite Manor had burned down, and those who hadn't burned had been found shot. There were virtually no Braithwaites, none that are useful to him anyway, those who handled the moonshine trade were dead. And Bronte had a wild beast of a man trapped in his basement, and no one to pay him for handling him.

It wasn't something he hadn't wondered about, but it sure was something he'd hoped against. 

He had no means to guarantee his safety, and he wasn't ready to flee an entire country because of one gang, ill-reputed as they are. What he  _did_ have was a bargaining token, and sooner rather than later, Bronte knew that they'd find him, and they showed that they have no fear, no hesitation, and they could very well burn the entire mansion on his head with him in it. Him and all those who worked under him. 

But Arthur Morgan was in the mansion, Arthur Morgan is the reason for their anger, and Arthur Morgan will be his key to survival. 

The basement is, by no means, an accommodating space. There's a moonshine still off to the corner, a water heater in another. The ground is only cement, with no tiles or carpets to absorb the coolness. The walls are painted black, and there's a single lantern lighting the darkness. Arthur Morgan is in the left-hand corner, in a cage Bronte had used for his slave export. Tied and staring like a caged Lion at Bronte, no worry in his eyes, only cold fury. His hair and skin are muddied, probably from his struggle with the Braithwaites, mouth pulled in a snarl, sweat glistening off his nose and cheek. 

Bronte doesn't like it, doesn't feel like he's in charge when the man looks so  _capable_ yet he's realistically chained and starved. In no shape to fight, but Bronte has an inkling that the circumstances don't matter for people like Arthur Morgan. Born and Bred to fight and kill, to survive, and the things that can hold Bronte back strengthen men like Arthur Morgan. 

Arthur Morgan is an animal, a lion, a  _tiger_. A wild cat, fierce and bloodthirsty and ready to sink its claws in your neck and tear out your throat. Arthur Morgan stands when Bronte is close, walks the small length of the cell and scowls at Angelo threateningly. Realistically, Bronte knows that the chains hold the man back, he'd tailored them, he'd tested them, after all. But the glint in Arthur's eyes send an itch at the back of Bronte's head, makes his hand twitch towards his pistol. Arthur Morgan sneers at him, followed by a mocking snort as he dramatically shakes the chains around his ankles. Bronte frowns despite himself, he'd shown fear, and the wild cat in front of him had sensed it, had _smelt_ it. Had mocked him. 

Bronte steels his face, squares his shoulder and taps his rings against the metal bars. Arthur Morgan regards him with disinterest, sitting on the ground, legs outstretched and closing his eyes. Looking unconcerned, face going slack as he drifts off, like a flickering candle and a gust of wind had blown it out. Asleep, calm,  _feral_.

It's the next morning when Bronte visits again, dragging two men behind him with buckets filled with water. Arthur Morgan popped one eye open, staring curiously before closing his eye again, breathing out. "Stand up," Bronte demanded, and the tiger opens both eyes this time, blue-green eyes turning dark at the command. Offhandedly, Bronte wonders how someone like Dutch Van Der Linde had such a man under his command, how he schooled and taught him. Perhaps the tiger is nothing more than a dog, and a dog can only have one master, it seems. 

Arthur Morgan stands, slow, eyes fixed on Bronte with murder drowning them. The men eye Bronte wearily when Bronte opens the cell door, glaring at them to enter, "Vai avanti!" he hisses angrily, and the men look at each other before obediently, stepping in the cell, "non sei uomini? hmm?" he berates, and the men nod dutifully, " _Lavalo"_

"come posso far-" one asks, stopping midsentence and nodding when Bronte frowned at him. The two men step closer to Arthur Morgan, who hadn't complied to Bronte's command and is still seated on the dusty ground. The men look down at the buckets in their arms before back at Arthur, who grins wickedly.

"Come on, fellas," Arthur Morgan invites, opening his arms widely, chains jingling at the movement. After a moments pause, where the men are unsure, and Arthur is staring up at them with a crazy smile, not hysterical, no,  _crazy_. Bronte shivers lightly, eyes falling on the chains again. He's  _safe_ , because no man is strong enough to break through metal on his own. When no one moves, Arthur Morgan stands, and the men step back, till the bars are pressing against their backs. "Come on, don't be scared now," Arthur Morgan taunts, placing a hand to one of the man's shoulders. The other man seemingly panics, dumping the cold water on Arthur's side, splashing and washing away some grime.

Arthur Morgan smiles as the man flees the cell, giving an obedient head nod towards Bronte and standing dutifully behind him. The other man, still frozen and now soaked alongside the tiger, moves from under Arthur's hand, throwing the bucket at him and taking several steps back, towards the exit as Arthur chokes and coughs at the water now dousing his face. "Esci..." Bronte dismisses, and the two men scramble away, towards the stairs leading upstairs. 

Arthur Morgan grins again, wiping at his face, scratching at his stubbled chin. Bronte examines him, trying to find a single  _clue_. One, one  _thing_ to help him understand. What,  _how_ , how this man is like  _that_. Threatening with a smile, giving promises of death with his eyes. It's a skill, Bronte thinks, aside from his infamy for being a gunslinger and excellent thief, Arthur Morgan is  _scary_. "Stare all you want, partner," Arthur says with a smirk, "Soon enough I'll be out of here," 

"I'm sure," Bronte drawls, feigning confidence with a smirk, "maybe you'll get out but...you've already lost a finger, who knows what else," that seems to grab Arthur's attention, and his smirk turns into a snarl again. Before their conversation could go any further, one of the guards, disheveled and scattered, shuffles in front of him with a bow.

"Master Bronte, there are...visitors outside for you," he stumbles over his own words, straightening his collar obsessively, "about...about _him_ ," he jerks his head towards the cell, where Arthur Morgan now stands with a renounced smirk, arms crossed despite the chains. 

Bronte nods, teeth grinding against each other. One day, only a single night had passed, and they'd found him. Bronte turns, closing his eyes when his face became hidden from both servant and prisoner. He climbs up the stairs, the light blinding him for a moment before he sits in his living room, a cup of tea prepared and steaming for him. He shrugs on his robe, rubbing at his eyes before he waves at a servant to fetch his... _guests._ No matter how much it feels like the first step towards death. Lord knows what they'll do if he refused their approach.

His pistol is a comforting weight at his side, his men filling the room as three men get escorted in. Two older men and a young man. Dutch Van Der Linde and his associates. Angelo scans them, and unlike Arthur Morgan, they look well suited. The oldest man dressed in a vest and clean white and blue shirt, hair combed neatly and pants seemingly  _ironed._ The man Bronte knows as Dutch Van Der Linde himself is dressed similarly, red vest, white shirt, a hat with a bullet at the edge. There  _is_ something off about the youngest of the three, hair greasy but jacket clean, shirt tucked in his pants. 

"What do you want?" Bronte asks, and the two elders step forward, Van Der Linde raising his arms in the air.

"You took our son," He says simply, eyes flashing darkly, and Angelo can see a resemblance between him and Arthur. Tamed anger in his eyes, Dutch stares him down, fake innocence in his expression, murder in his eyes. 

"We just want him back," The other, older white-haired man continues, taking another step forward. Angelo keeps his eyes on the youngest man, who has a hand hovering over his holster, a strikingly similar wild look in his eyes. A bunch of animals, wild animals, he realizes, in different ways. Where Arthur is a tiger, Dutch stares him down like a lion, and the young greasy-haired man like a wolf. Perhaps it's the scars that sell the point, but he's staring darkly at Angelo, dark eyes waiting, waiting for a moment to strike. 

But he can't, not now, at least. The oldest man stares expectantly, and it unnerves Bronte for unknown reasons. The hair on his neck rises, "You come into  _my city_ " Bronte grits out, looking at Dutch, eyes falling again on the young wolf, "You come and you  _demand_ ," he breathes out, falling silent when Dutch tilted his head, face falling unreadable.

"We've got no beef with you, friend," The lion speaks, and the words are anything but friendly. A growl, almost, a warning. The point of his patience is almost exceeded, his time is running out.

"You destroyed the liquor business!" Angelo shoots back, leaning on his couch and his men ready their weapons. The lion, the wolf, the wise older man, the look around the room and take a step back; giving themselves a wide birth. Ready for a fight, they are, and Angelo will end up with a bullet in his head.

"We are just... _simple_ country folk," Dutch tries, "We've got nothing  _but our family,"_ he continues, voice growing impatient, cracking in seeping anger, "and you have gone and took  _our_ son,  _his_ brother," he points at the young man, who glares at Angelo, frown set deep, trigger finger twitching. Angelo thinks, squinting and gritting his teeth.

"Bring Mister Morgan out," he says, breaking the stare he'd had with the young man, the wolf smirks, hand coming to cross over his chest. The lion relaxes, steps closer to Bronte, who waves them towards the smaller chair across him. "Angelo Bronte," he introduces, having a suspicion the three outlaws already knew of his name, doesn't doubt they know his entire history at this point.

"Hosea Matthews," The oldest man replies, and the other two follow.  _John Marston_ , the wolf had been named, sounding uninterested and edgy, eyes fixed on where one of his men had disappeared.

"You want your friend- _spiacente,_ er,  _son_ back," Bronte starts, motioning for a maid to fetch something for them.  _Guests_ , he thinks, the most sought after outlaws, "Well... It'd be my  _pleasure_ to give him back, but you see..." Angelo pauses, the sound of chains chattering against each other drawing him out of his bargain. Arthur Morgan struts in, like the weight of iron clasping his ankles and wrists are nothing, smirks at Bronte, grins at the guests. And there are no guards behind him. There's blood on his hands, dripping off the tips of his nine fingers. 

He's still wet, shirt sticking to his chest, hair curling on his forehead. But he truly looks like a tiger, blue-green eyes alight with mischief. He waves at the lion, with his left hand that's missing two knuckles off his ring finger. From this angle, Bronte notices the missing patch of hair, at the back of his head, behind his ears. His jaw now an ugly black instead of the blue-purple that he'd arrived with, nose no longer bleeding like it had been. He still had dirt on him, the impromptu shower had done little, but he smiles, off white, a single shade away from pale yellow, showing. The lion frowns, looking at Bronte with anger in his eyes, and the wold stands. But Hosea stops him, a wise man indeed, a stag amidst a pack of wild animals. John Marston sits down, glaring daggers at Bronte as Arthur shuffles closer, chains  _clink, clink,_ clinking. Like a ticking clock, the room becomes tense, and his men start to shift in anticipation. 

"Did they do that to you?" The lion asks, voice low but tone fear-striking. Angelo scoots his hand closer to his hidden pistol, the stag stares at the tiger, the wolf scowls at Bronte. 

"Braithwaites, I'm afraid," Arthur answers coolly, "Bronte, here, well, he gave me a _bath_ ," it's almost a sneer, but it's more warning than anything. A silent promise, this isn't the last they'll see of each other. "Killed your man, I'm afraid," he shrugs, reaching behind him and pulling out a revolver, engraved with gold, like every other guard in the room. 

" _Arthur_ ," Hosea whispers, and Arthur looks back, eyes softening as he tosses the gun towards Bronte carelessly, "Mister Bronte, can we take him and leave?" it's not a suggestion, no matter how much his tone suggests otherwise. His eyes are hard, and his mouth is pressed in a tight line, Dutch raises an eyebrow,  _daring_ that Bronte refuse. 

"Of course," Bronte laughs, chest tightening as he lowers his arms that had raised with the outburst, "but, I need a... _favor,_ " he adds, and the faint smile that had grown on Dutch's mustached face flickers downwards. A favor, a request that will establish them as acquaintances, and not only the man that had chained Arthur Morgan in his basement. "There are these...thieves. They'd been robbing graves, out in the cemetery,"

"Yes, that's a good spot for it, the best," The lion retorts, and Arthur gives a crooked half-smile with a huff. Bronte ignores it, eyes on the silent stag, the wise and arguably most sane man between the four. 

"You take them out, drive them away,  _make sure they're no longer robbing_ , and you can have Mister Morgan back," 


End file.
